


have a drink on me

by drphil



Category: Avengers, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Blowjobs, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Fluff and Smut, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Rough Sex, fat thor is hot and deserves this, human sex toy tony stark, vague plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 04:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19349608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drphil/pseuds/drphil
Summary: Thor looks down at him, little mortal in his lap, lips wrapped around a beer. The only one of them who stole him away, offered assistance, gave him his evening, quite possibly their last. The one who housed him and taught him to curse in English, who looks him up and down when he thinks Thor isn’t looking, then does it again even when he is. One of the only beings in the galaxy who has never once wavered in his approach to Thor, God, worthy, or not. It's very inviting.“Puny Stark,” he says with a lopsided grin, “I would crush you.”Tony’s eyes shine. “That is exactly what I want.”





	have a drink on me

Thor vaguely recalled Tony’s grip on his forearm tightening as he quietly but swiftly led him away from his loose explanation of the reality stone. But all the grit had disappeared from Tony’s voice when he leaned over the back of his chair and muttered to meet him on the upper floor of the compound. “Booze” was the crucial detail; Thor was waiting at the hull of the stairway before Tony even got there.

“Damn. Got the sweats yet?” Tony asks, looking him up and down. “No — you know what, don’t answer that. Don’t need to delve that deep. But you and me both need a drink.” 

He leads him into a bunk room, but naturally, Stark’s idea of a bunk is a lavish lounge, several televisions, a french-doored balcony overlooking miles and miles of trees curving over the hills beneath the waning sun. And, most importantly, a fully-stocked bar.

It makes a dull impression on them both. Thor cuts across the room, straight to the barstools. He can only vaguely feel the warmth of the sunset against the side of his face as he sits and leans right over the counter. 

“Don’t touch,” Stark tells him as he rounds the other side of the bar, where Thor’s reaching for the bottles arranged in orderly lines. “Just sit back, big guy. I got this.” 

He pours them both scotch on ice, taking a glance at Thor and then doubling the contents of his glass. The pretty label on the bottle is probably supposed to mean something lavish and extravagant, but Tony should know better than to try and impress him. It’s somewhat touching that he still tries. Maybe Thor still is the “rich space jock” Tony’s always insisted he was. 

The two glasses clink down in front of him, followed by the bottle, and after a moment, one more. Stark’s always thinking.

Thor luls about to his senses as his fingers wrap around the glass, realizing Tony has just sat down in the stool next to him when the glow of the arc reactor shines through the tint of his sunglasses. Tony tugs his sleeves up to lean back against the bar on his bared elbows. He raises his glass towards Thor without looking. 

“Bottoms up, Fabio,” he says, clinking them together. Thor drinks his in a single sip. Tony pours him another in silence.

By the time Thor finishes off the bottle, making the glassware nothing but a formality, Tony looks anxious, impatient, almost imperceptibly tapping his finger against the bar. He swallows, draws in a breath but doesn’t speak, and then repeats. Thor’s just reaching for the unopened box of single malt next to them when he finally allows his curiosity, or irritation, to get the better of him and turns to Tony instead.

“Look,” Tony says after a beat, still not looking at him, “I know you’re not a big talker, uh, nowadays, and I’m not a big feelings guy, so you’re in good company. There sure is a lot to shut the fuck up about, especially for two loud — yet _wildly_ powerful — assholes that are saving, you know, existence. Anyway, not harping, not my style, but, uh…” he trails off, gesturing with his hands aimlessly. 

Thor says nothing, pops open the new bottle. 

“Dammit, man, can you help me out here?” Tony snaps, then takes a long, deliberate breath. “Just, hey, I don’t know. I, we’re… worried. Troubled. Perturbed. About you. You know?” 

“Who’s ‘we’?” Thor finally reciprocates. His voice is still gentle. It sounds foreign. 

“Me—! We, you know, us, the island of misfit toys.” Tony almost looks at him. “Your teammates.”

“And you’re appointed head of the ‘Thor’s Glum’ brigade, are you?” 

Tony visibly bristles and drags the scotch over. “Alright, I got it, I got it, fuck me. Nevermind.” 

Thor untangles his sunglasses from his mane, tossing them on the counter. “Just mind your business, Stark,” he mutters. The ice in his glass clinks, swirls, seems to melt even slower, burdened under his gaze. 

“My b—” Tony clamps his mouth shut and his head dips between his shoulders. He takes a swig directly from the bottle as he comes back up. “I… Look, I’m trying, buddy. I’m just trying. This isn’t ‘glum.’ This is despondent. I don’t wanna be here either, with this second chance bullshit. We _all_ lost, but here we are.” He pinches his brow, finally glancing up at him, hard-jawed and hesitant. “This? This is all we fucking got, Thor. We’re trying.”

“For what?” Thor spits. 

Tony’s quiet again, and it calls Thor from his stupor; no snap back, no quit-wit response, no scoff or eye roll. He just looks at him, holds his gaze in a way that feels like it’s boring into the back of his skull, like he’s tapped into everything bottlenecked so deeply in Thor’s soul it hasn’t seen the sun in five years, can barely feel its warmth anymore. 

“Yeah,” is all he says, tearing his eyes away after a moment, but not blinking. “For what.”

Another beat of silence, and Thor’s large hand comes down on his wrist with an audible thud, before he even realizes his arm has moved. He wants to say something, but nothing comes to the surface.

“Just keep drinking,” Tony says. 

 

Another bottle’s gone, the sun has disappeared into a bitter purple haze, and Tony’s put something on television, something he says reminds him of Thor. He’s sprawled on the couch besides him, an ankle hooked around his knee, the sunglasses up on his own head as he types something on his phone.

“But lose the shades,” he’s in the middle of saying, though Thor hasn’t heard much of it. “Hot look, don’t get me wrong, a bold move, but your opinions can and will be questionable barring respectable eye contact.” He tilts them down and looks under his brows at Thor, as if to prove his point. 

“Seems it’s your problem now,” Thor says.

Tony leans over to snatch his beer from him and takes a sip of it. “And as the new Asgardian leader, I better step up my blood alcohol concentration.”

He takes another drink, there’s a pause, the man on television yells something about losing his very clearly dead friend’s sunglasses, Tony’s doing that finger-drumming thing again and Thor knows what’s coming, all his muscles pulled taut, ready for Stark to absolutely ruin the last day he may ever somewhat enjoy with the crushing blow of the reality he’s willingly placed himself in yet again—

“You ever fuck guys?” Tony says, passing the beer back to him calmly. 

Thor nearly misses grasping the neck of the bottle. 

“Sorry, sorry. I know. Just curious. Don’t know how the whole kinsey scale thing works on a galaxy level.” Tony reaches for a beer of his own, cracking it open and wiping the condensation right on the couch cushion. “How gay is Asgard? Like, old Asgard. Or, or now; you live with a dude, right?”

“You’re drunk,” Thor says.

“Hell yeah. Still not an answer.”

Thor thinks about Asgard, about royal lineage, drunken celebrations, and his own intoxicated escapades. The steady stream of both men and women gets a bit hazy after a while. For the last five years, he’s been thankful that Korg never asked many questions.

He grabs Tony’s beer from him, steadily drinks half of it and wipes the froth from his beard. “Gay enough.”

Tony’s studying him, a new light in his eyes, clouded with just a hint of trepidation. “Hell yeah.”

Thor takes a sip of his own beer, dangling Tony’s between his eyes. Tony follows its swing back and forth for a moment or two before grabbing it.

“Wonder what’ll be left, after all this,” he says, but his voice remains flippant, contemplative.

Thor chuckles. “Who cares?”

Tony uses the leg wrapped around Thor’s large thigh to yank himself up, catching his eye in a look that somehow reminds Thor of one of Heimdall’s, all those years ago; you’d swear he wasn’t there, he couldn't possibly be there all the time, but the omnipresent sensation of warmth and shelter reassures you: you’re safe.

Tony regards him a moment longer, almost unconsciously hovering even closer, and when Thor doesn’t turn away, he naturally blathers some more. “I’ll, uh, choose to overlook that sorely bleak lease on life, because you didn’t answer fully. Keep in mind, it’s literally, actually the end of the world, and we’re drunk.” He lets his free hand fall to Thor’s arm, gripping it, like he had earlier downstairs. “ _Very_ drunk. Which also means this would be easily forgettable, if the answer is no, but...”

Thor looks down at him, little mortal in his lap, wearing his glasses, lips wrapped around a beer. The only one of them who stole him away, offered assistance, gave him his evening, quite possibly their last. The one who asked if a god was wearing drapes upon meeting him, who housed him and taught him to curse in English, who looks him up and down when he thinks Thor isn’t looking, then does it again even when he is. One of the only beings in the galaxy who has never once wavered in his approach to Thor, God, worthy, or not. It's very inviting.

“Puny Stark,” he says with a lopsided grin, “I would crush you."

Tony’s eyes shine even from under the sunglasses. “That is _exactly_ what I want you to do.”

“Ah, then,” Thor finishes the last bottle, letting it drop to the floor and roll away. “Let us make jest.”

 

Something Thor affirms right away: Tony has wanted to do this for a long, long time. 

When he’s slipped straight down on his knees, trying to yank Thor’s sweatpants down beneath the unmoving weight of his legs, he’s practically whimpering, chattering in a stream of consciousness: “God, can I just suck your dick? I don’t even care if you blueball me. Oh. Huge. Of course he’s huge. Christ. Hope this is how I go out.”

Thor chuckles, broad hand in Tony’s hair. “I’d never deny you the pleasure.” His voice drops, only partially intentional. “But I’d also fuck you senseless.”

Tony pries his boxers down and engulfs him with a sudden hastiness.

Thor lets himself slouch back into the couch, low hums sounding from deep within his throat as Tony buries himself between his splayed legs. His hand threads around Tony’s ear, beneath his chin, thumb tracing the line of his carefully-manicured beard, brushing the unfamiliar streaks of gray. Thor isn’t exactly gentle, but it’s for reason; he feels nothing but raw enthusiasm each time he curls a hand around the back of his neck, cards through his hair and tightens it in his fist. It’s hardly a couple of minutes before Tony’s pulling off, drooling, looking dreamily at him from behind the fogged-up sunglasses he hadn’t bothered to take off.

“Okay, no, I’m gonna need to turn in that ‘rail me’ card, right now,” he pants, adjusting his jeans as he sits back on his haunches. “Sorry. Please. Pretty please. Fuck, you’re hot, you know that?”

“Wise _and_ talented.” Thor tilts his chin up with one large finger. “I always knew you were.” 

“Yeah, jotting that one down. The God of Thunder has thought about me blowing him. Then I blew him.” Tony hoists himself up, already yanking his sweater off by the back of the collar, sunglasses with it. “Then he got naked. _Why_ aren’t you naked?” 

Thor merely leans forward, pulling Tony in by the waistband of his pants. The button easily pops off on its own, and Tony groans like he’s about to collapse right into his arms. It makes him smile, despite himself.

“No fair. I’m serious. Get nude.” Tony kicks his pants and briefs to the side as Thor just sits back and openly regards the sight in front of him. “Okay. Fine. Where-where do you want me, what’re you gonna do to me? It can be _anything_. I mean it, anything you want, I’ll do it, I’m in.” He’s practically breathless already, hands gripping each other, fingers worrying their palms in anticipation.

“Come here,” Thor gestures to his lap with a hand, unmoving, like he’s waiting. 

Tony tips his head back. “ _Fuck_ yes.” 

The first thing he does when he clambers on top of Thor is sink low against his chest and, unexpectedly, kiss him deeply. Stark tastes like the scotch, bitter like lemon and a hint of something sweet. It’s delicious. 

Thor feels his hands run up beneath the hem of his hoodie, yanking the thick, beer-stained cardigan down his arms and grumbling against his lip. After a minute he gives in, pushing Tony away and raising his elbows up. “If you must.” 

“Oh, that’s more like it,” Tony says, cocking his head, tugging the shirt up over his dreads, barely letting it fall aside before kissing him again. He slides his hands up, down, over the muscles of his arms, the fold of his gut, stares down at him like he’s so overcome he doesn’t know what to do next. “You know how many wet dreams I’ve had about this? Do you? Somewhere in the mid to upper-range thousands. Friday can attest. God, why did this take so long—“ He cuts himself off with a low moan, hands splayed across Thor’s chest.

“You _still_ talk too much,” Thor says, both exalted and jaunty, like only he can look.

Tony wordlessly grinds down against his still-wet cock in response. He traps them both between their torsos, jutting up against Thor’s belly, breath hot on his neck.

Thor takes this into consideration as he brings his hands to Tony’s waist. He uses what feels to him like barely any strength to anchor his hips against his thighs, but Tony inhales sharply in his ear.

“Do that again,” he demands, grabbing one of Thor’s hands and guiding it to his ass. Thor heartily obliges, digging his fingers in and outright yanking Tony tightly up against him, nearly throwing them both off-balance as Tony groans at the ceiling.

“You like being tossed around?” Thor muses.

Tony shivers. “You could say that.” 

His voice suddenly dissolves as he finds himself lifted right off the couch, strong hands gripping around each of his thighs, making them look miniscule in comparison. Eye-level with the arc reactor, Thor looks up at him, smirking.

“Oh, okay,” Tony’s choking out. “Yep. Good plan. Let’s go. Bedroom’s that way.”

Stark hits the mattress so hard he bounces, Thor not far behind. He grabs Tony by the ankles before he can do anything and yanks him across the bedspread, pulling him back up against his legs.

“ _God_ , yeah, yes,” Tony breathes, “Thank you Jesus. Uh. Lube. Lubricant. I’m gonna need you to oil that baby up. Hold on—"

Tony scurries to his feet, intending to haul ass to the bathroom, but Thor’s hand clasps his arm, and when he turns to look at him, he’s launched back against the blankets. “I did not say you could move.”

The dry air that comes out of Tony’s mouth rather than words is nothing short of beautiful. 

The bathroom door bangs into the wall as Thor exits himself and reappears with a bottle of lotion, which he pops open with his teeth.

“Classic.” Tony looks mildly relieved and a little bit, no, very excited that he doesn’t have to have the sex talk with an Asgardian.

Thor kneels on the bed, and then all at once he’s mounted overtop of Tony, his long hair hanging in Tony’s floored face as he gathers his arms over his head and grips them together hard enough to bruise. He smiles lightly down at him. “These stay here.”

Tony looks too overwhelmed to speak, and it charms Thor in such a way that he jostles him a bit for good measure as he makes his way downward.

He hikes both Tony’s legs up at the same time, taking pleasure in the gasp he lets out beneath him, visibly straining from being unable to move. He picks his hips up easily, curling him inward, knees practically jutting under his chin as he props Tony up in front of him.

“You know, Stark, you could have asked,” Thor drags a slick finger in a thin line down his cock. “We could have done this long ago.” He continues the trail all the way to his ass, up and down, and Tony whimpers. 

“Uh _huh_ , currently kicking myself for that one,” he grits out, almost trembling beneath him. “And feel free to contribute. Corporal punishment.”

Thor exhales in lieu of a laugh. “Now I am definitely regretting it as well.”

Tony seems steadily concerned, whether about their delayed rendezvous or the sizeable finger circling teasingly around his asshole, Thor isn’t sure. He’s staring down his navel, the triangle of light glowing in his concentrated gaze, letting his thighs hitch up higher as he tenses under Thor’s touch.

“Relax,” Thor hums, and Tony’s eyes almost roll up under his eyelids as he leans forward and slides the tip of his finger into him. He waits, patiently, hovering over Tony until it looks like he’s breathing again. “Do I need to get you another whiskey? I said, relax.” 

Tony’s hands ball into fists over his head. “Would you give an alcoholic the keys to the distillery and then tell him to relax? Go. Go.”

It takes a bit longer than expected — “You are just big _all_ over” — for Thor to get more than two fingers in him, but he begs, more than any Midgardian should, melting into a shaky mess sheened with sweat. The difficulty, Thor finds, lies not within Tony’s attitude, but his own strange craving to give him _everything_ he asks for. A hand stealthily slides around his cock at some point, because Tony’s never listened to anybody, and Thor even allows it, just watching him squirm. 

“Okay, honey, this is great, but it’s gonna get real messy if you don’t get a move on.” Even muffled in the pillows Tony’s voice is still audibly higher, but his hips keep rocking themselves up against Thor’s palm, insuppressible.

Thor leans in, one hand planted near where Tony’s knuckles are turning white in the sheets, the other still curled inside him. “And if I don’t?” he says, bemused. “Maybe I’ll just let you tire yourself out like this.”

“Thor…” 

“I don’t mind, either way.” His tone gets haughty very quickly as he finds himself needing to feel that flip of Tony’s stomach each time he’s teased, pushed around. “I’ve a feeling you’d still plead for me to fuck you afterward.”

Tony jerks his head away from where Thor’s lips are brushing his ear, struggling despite himself to stop pushing into Thor’s fingers. His agitated eyes glare at him from the side. “Are-are gods always this egotistical in bed? Completely correct, sure, but the subtle hints of narcissism are so unbecoming—“ 

His feeble chatter breaks off with a gasp as Thor jerks all three fingers out at once. “Get up.”

Without question, Tony scrambles to scoot back beneath Thor’s weight, failing not to wince. For a moment he stares down at Thor’s dick, which is definitely hard and dripping now, and then taps on the bottle. “Whatever you think you’re gonna put on that thing, triple it.”

Thor shoves him aside and settles down, resting against the headboard. He complies by coating his cock over with a few gratuitous strokes, which Tony watches keenly from where he’s lying, but before he can get lost in the sensation, he turns and pats his leg. “Come on, then, up here,” he says.

Tony practically floats to his knees as he straddles Thor’s wide legs. He unabashedly steadies himself with the solid frame of his shoulders as he tries to line up with where Thor’s gripping his cock. 

Thor knows not to lug him around just yet, but the temptation is so sweet with the long, endless sound he makes, sinking centimeter by centimeter into Thor’s lap. His fingers dig into thick skin, brow pinching, mouth parted in a series of sharp breaths and little noises, like he’s barely grasping reality anymore. Thor just waits, calm and quiet, until they’re face to face, where Tony pries an eye open to find Thor grinning at him. 

He opens his mouth no doubt to say something irrelevant, but Thor kisses him instead, heavily, killing the words on his lips. Tony stays there for a while.

His first movements are measured, tenuous, but he still huffs and twitches like he’s rushing himself and Thor fights the urge to still him, soothe him somehow — Stark would probably slap him for it. So, he sits back and lets him work himself on his cock, his hands still coming up around Tony’s sides to help loft him in place. He lets his thumbs idly stroke along the pretty trail of salt-and-pepper hair pointing down his abdomen, following it with the pads of his fingers, feeling the way Tony’s back arches into them. 

“Having fun?” he asks, knowing fully well what the answer will be.

“Shut up and fuck me,” Tony grounds out. 

A smile tugs at the corner of Thor’s mouth as he thrusts upward, just once, letting Tony accommodate. “Mm, you mean like th–?”

“Oh my god,” Tony hisses, aimlessly trying to clutch at Thor’s shoulders, desperate. “Jesus, yeah, just like that, just—“

Thor does it again, gentle, unhurried. Tony looks like he’s had enough of Thor’s goading philosophy, but his shaking hands can’t seem to cooperate.

“Thor,” he groans, the column of his neck visibly straining, “Buddy, I can take it, I swear, please, I want it, I want it so bad—“

Thor tilts his head, relentless. “How bad, Stark?”

Tony just picks himself up and thrusts down this time, mouth falling slack on impact. “ _Oh,_ god, oh Jesus, that’s, yep, Thor, just...” 

“There, you show me how you like it,” Thor says, the huskiness that’s overtaken his voice making his accent almost impossibly thick. “And maybe I will help you out.”

Tony physically constricts around him. “Oh god.”

One hand splays on Thor’s chest, the other wrapped around his arm for dear life, as Tony slowly, carefully bores down, in a rhythmic grind, like he’s calculating it to the millisecond. Once he finds a beat, Thor takes in the way Tony slides backwards a bit, back against his heels, the grunts and weak little “yeahs” of indication that he’s hitting a very sweet spot. His hands curiously never venture back to his cock, though, as it ruts between them, slick with sweat and precome. It must be aching.

Tony’s mumbling nonsense between shallow, ragged breaths, steadily rocking faster against Thor’s thighs, when Thor finally, mercifully lets their hips join in the middle, so easily matching his efforts.

Tony gasps something, something ambiguously sounding like, “Thank Christ” and his grip slides down Thor’s arms, fingernails dragging lines across his skin, grabbing and latching on like he’s trying to keep Thor from dropping him. Thor nearly laughs; he can’t recall the last time someone so saplessly _nagged_ him like this. Nor can he recall it ever being so gratifying. 

Tony’s eyes narrow and squeeze shut, head lolling with their combined movement, like he’s lost somewhere, concentrating, adding up the numbers. The deliberate slap of skin on skin from his responding force makes Thor wonder if he can come just from this. He begins outright bucking up into him, partially just to see what happens. 

It’s a good call; Tony starts whimpering, begging: “Yes, yeah, that’s right, fuck me, _fuck me_ —“ 

“What else do you like, Tony?” Thor asks lowly. It takes both he and Tony by surprise — Thor, his genuine curiosity, and Tony the use of his name, coupled with an invitation to keep talking. 

“What do I like?” he parrots. “I, I, let’s see, I like this giant lightning rod that’s rearranging my internal organs, I like your big, slobbery mouth, ah, love those hands, giant, garbage can lid hands, I like—“ 

Thor tightens his grip around Tony and, instead of holding him still and thrusting up into him, simply picks him up and drops him down _on_ his dick. 

“I— _fuck_ — like that, oh,” Tony chokes out, and finally goes quiet. 

Thor seems like he couldn’t care less about getting off at this point and the implication alone makes Tony moan above him, the sound broken up between each upsurge of Thor basically fucking him like a novelty. Using what little mobility is available to an arguably petite human being physically impaled, Tony just drops his weight into Thor’s hands and takes it.

Thor continues to drag him up and down on his cock, catching Tony’s lips against his smirk every so often, and Tony looks like he’d love to reciprocate if the strained little sounds he makes didn’t slip out instead each time their beards caught one another. When Thor carries on the efforts with only _one_ hand, he brings the other to his mouth in a vulgar display of spitting into his palm before finally wrapping it around Tony’s dick.

The way Tony’s body slouches right into his touch tells Thor he expects something long, slow, satisfying, but when Thor squeezes the skillful circle of his fist around his cock and strips it in pace with the uninhibited snapping of their hips, Tony’s eyes go completely blank.

“Oh, god, you still got it,” he squeaks, and Thor can’t help but pull him into an even harder kiss.

Tony just shakily circles his fingers around the back of Thor’s neck, threading them steadfastly into his hair, and Thor has to acknowledge the electrical wave that shoots through his lower belly watching Tony crumple into him, fall apart _because_ of him like this, the way it has a different sort of tangibility; something gratifying, captivating, secure.

When Tony tears his lips away, a shudder running down his spine in Thor’s grasp, he knows he’s balancing right on the brink, and the harmony of his lungs burning through his ragged, uneven breath and the race of his pulse against his increasingly fitful movements is like music. The way Tony falls finally, blissfully wordless, stomach hollowing, letting Thor do whatever he wants to topple him over the edge makes Thor curl him in impossibly closer. 

He tugs Tony’s hips forward, hitting that sweet spot inside him once, twice, and then releasing his waist altogether to press their foreheads together, try and ground him. The fingers in Thor’s tousled hair go limp as Tony comes all over his hand.

Tony’s head drops to Thor’s shoulder, panting, shuddering into the gentle circles of his fist until they come to a stop. The barrel of his chest heaves against Thor’s and he just stays there, pliant against him, letting his eyes blink open as he realizes Thor’s pressing kisses to the side of his face, his jaw, hand still curled around the nape of his neck.

“Oh, Hamlet,” he says thickly, sounding far away as Thor nips at the slickness of his collarbone. “I’m ruined. For all others. As in, non-demigods— aw, fuck.”

Thor smiles, widely, against his skin, and the words come out before he means them to. “Stark, I, I think that I needed this.”

Tony doesn’t answer right away, whether from exhaustion or otherwise, and Thor briefly thinks, hopes, he didn’t hear it. But then he pulls back, eyes distantly focused on him, mind finally adrift in abandonment, lost in something wonderful.

He comes back down with an unstable breath. “Glad to be of service. Now, if you’ll note, I didn’t say stop.”

Thor releases his cock slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Adorable. Keep going.” Tony looks so drained, so intoxicated as he gazes down at him. “I needed you to need it.” 

Thor’s hands come around his hips and he nods, pressing his ass flush with his legs as he rocks him up, down, rebuilding the cadence Tony let him set, no, demanded. He tries to give Tony a chance to rebound, shrugging his elbows to rest up on his shoulders, hunched over him.

Tony grunts and gasps a little, but Thor knows by now that he’s high on it, being used like this. He visibly bites his tongue and then starts groaning, deep and rough, like it’s now or never, “ _Harder_ , Thor, just give it to me—“ and it isn’t long before the heat that coils within Thor’s belly starts wrapping tighter and faster around his legs, his chest, his cock, the staccato of his thrusts growing visibly uneven. 

“You gonna come?” Tony’s asking, fingers still tangled in the thickness of his hair. His voice is breathless, weak, but he forces the words out anyway: “‘Cause you should come on me. That’d be really fucking hot. Definitely jerked off thinking about it once. Well, more than once.”

That earns a hitch in Thor’s breath.

“Yeah?” Tony watches the way his eyes dart down between them like the clock’s ticking. “You wanna? I want you to.”

Thor cannot think of a single thing that sounds better than doing whatever Tony’s pleading him to do, exhausted, wrecked, stretched tight around him, even if it’s “Mmm, c’mon, Vince Neil, cum all over me.”

Thor moans — _oh_ , yeah — and Tony’s lifted up a final time, Thor sliding himself out and outright dropping Tony down onto his lap with a smack. He’s already stroking himself, but then Tony’s hands greedily shove his away, and he gives in as Tony uses the remainder of his coherence to get Thor off for himself. His grip might not be quite as strong, but the little begs for his release, the way he stares up at Thor like this is the only thing left in the universe that matters to him, making him come, it hits him like a freight train. He clutches Tony close and growls his name into his mouth as the pressure builds and builds and finally explodes.

Tony shamelessly pulls back to watch as he strokes him through his orgasm, watch his face, finally blissful, his cock pulsing in his hand, the white streaks across his own torso. If Thor was able to focus in that moment, he’d pay attention to how exposed Tony looks, how defenseless his eyes are, how it’s like looking into a mirror. The moment it spatters all the way up onto the arc reactor, Tony lets out a groan and crushes their lips together.

Tony’s still kissing him as he comes down, hand moving slower and slower until it finally stills. Thor lets him, licking lazily into his mouth as he sags back against the headboard, Tony in tow. He lets his hand slide between them, dragging his fingers through their combined mess rolling down the taut expanse of Tony’s navel. 

Tony finally pushes himself off and looks down. His worn-out face looks nothing less than ecstatic.

“ _Fuck_ , I want a picture of this,” he hums, his hand joining Thor’s to trace the slickness up the line of his sternum.

“Don’t fret, you look disgusting,” Thor murmurs, venerated. Their hands intertwine at some point and Tony invites himself to curl beneath Thor’s chin, making conditions between them very, very damp. He’s still heaving, the metal edging of the reactor digging into Thor’s chest with each breath.

“By the way, that’s not the first time I’ve requested Vince Neil to cum on me,” Tony says, buried in the crook of Thor’s neck.

“I don’t doubt it.” Thor says, like he knows who that is, lets his other hand linger protectively atop his head as he slides them down the headboard so they’re horizontal. There’s an obscene squelching noise between them, but Tony settles right into it, sighing dreamily. There’s something about the raw filthiness that’s strangely comforting. The shared vulnerabilities. They trusted each other with this. And there’s nowhere else to go. He’s so warm and Thor feels sober.

The room finally, peacefully falls still again, and Thor doesn’t know if he should say something, can’t figure out how to. It unavoidably settles right back in, hangs in the air between them. Should they go back to work, run, ever leave this room again? For once, neither can seem to open their mouths.

At some point, before they’re cemented together, they get up to clean themselves off, but Tony makes not an attempt to redress. There’s a single moment of hesitation, just a split second where he glances up at Thor like he may have dreamt all this, or worse, and most sensible, like a mistake was made, but then they wind up back in the warm, tangled sheets once more.

“So glad you grew your hair out again,” Tony’s saying, like none of it matters. “The beard could use some finesse, but the burn is to die for.”

Thor stares at the ceiling, and his eyelids flutter shut. “You need to go,” he says, every fiber of his being telling him not to.

“Fuck you,” Tony replies, but there’s no force behind it.

“I know, Stark.” Thor rubs at his eyes. “Tony. Go.” 

“ _We_ need to go.” Tony makes no effort to move, pressing into Thor’s arms. 

“The others, they don’t need me the way they need you.”

Tony exhales, but doesn’t fight him the way Thor expects him to. He just lets his fingers fall to the edge of Thor’s beard, gently rolling it between his fingers, knuckles ever-so-slightly grazing the warmth of his cheek. He avoids his eye.

They lie in silence for a few minutes longer, before Tony finally sits up, sticky, weary. He just looks at Thor with a hopelessness that strikes something within him, something that haunts him, lights him again. 

“We need you,” Tony says. “I need you with me on this. Always have."

 

When they return to the lower level of the compound, in the early hours of the morning, Tony joins Bruce and Natasha in their work, Thor retreats. They don’t speak. Tony catches his eye once or twice and Thor can’t exactly read the look on his face, but in those single moments, somehow, it’s not scared. He looks like something reconciled.

When they return to that room again, Natasha doesn’t come back.

 

So, when it comes time for Thor to board the raccoon’s ship, fingers feeling lighter without Mjolnir, feeling lighter than he has in a very long time, he watches the tiny void only the Midgardians call home now slowly shrink, then disappear all at once, Norway, New York, Tony’s lake, all of it. Maybe it’s not all light he feels. 

Maybe he just needs a drink.


End file.
